A Man's Demise
by BeingMyself45
Summary: This may be a one-shot, this may be a story. I'm not sure yet. Any feedback or reviews are appreciated.


"Bloody hell," William cursed himself in a gruff tone under his breath, flying off his stallion. Mysteriously, his heightened superior air had vanished, making him equal with the dastardly ruffians General Cornwallis had most generously referred to as mere" farmers with pitchforks". Dear Xanthus crumbled to his side, struggling to get up. William's lip twitched, and he felt a hard lump in his throat. On his knees, he looked down. The only companion he truly had in the Americas- gone. His heart was broken, yea, but it had been broken many times. Rising from the floor in a trance, Tavington straightened his back. His countenance hardened like cold ice over glossy rivers. His grey eyes mirrored the scene before him. Not a scene with a fine platter, feminine scents, and powdered wigs before him, but a reflection of pure horror. Comrades and enemies falling both alike. Swords and muskets raving and guts, flesh and blood spilling on the fresh Carolinian terrain.

He must fight, there was no running. There was no turning back. There was no other alternative. He must be strong. He must be valiant. He must fight like a man. Stepping forward, a boy, no more than fifteen years of age, stared at him with wide eyes. William's lip slightly parted, and he observed the frail figure for a moment. A rebel, he was. The boy's breath quickened, and William looked up, a new wave of memories flashing before him. Odd as it was, he reminded him of himself at that age. Clenching his fists, a queer mingle of fear and determination flashed over his green eyes. William almost laughed, amused by the boy's disposition. Crouching down to his level, he smirked, patting the boy's pale cheek. "I suppose you would kill me if you could," he said, raising his brow. "Would you not?"

The boy bit his lip, and shot his aggressor a contorted, angry glare full of boyish resolve. "Why, you're just a mere boy!" he acclaimed in mock astonishment. William stroked the boy's cheek, swiping his hand away as the teen attempted to bite him. Chuckling again, he stood up. "Smart lad," he said appraisingly, turning on his heel.

Leisurely strolling through the battlefield, he stabbed his musket through an untactful rebel charging his way. In return, he received an overwhelming blow from behind, causing him to collapse to the ground. Above him stood a blurred image of the one he once called "father", a bottle of rum clenched in his hand. The one person he dared not to think of. The one he vowed not to love. The one he never imagined seeing at the place he came to to build the reputation he broke.

Hengry Tavingtion's fist swung vehemently, crashing the bottle over his head the same way he had when William was 15. Against all odds, William was in the same stance as the young boy he had disregarded earlier. Just as he mocked the lad, he was now being mocked. Just as he scared the lad, he was now frightened. But no. William was older, not the trembling little boy he had once been suffering under the hand of his father-oh how he despised that name! He was Tavington, Lieutenant Colonel William Tavington. A grown man with a name, a purpose in life.

Reviving as he always did, Tavington lifted himself up, prepared to meet his match again. "The Butcher" was his name. He wouldn't cower or stand mockery under a sick old man. Just as he had been thrown off his horse, William fell back onto the soil with another formidable blow. He shook, and he felt his outer mask of steel pride slowly peeling away. His true self, sensitive to the world and people around him, overcame his former disguise. Tears formed in the corner of his grey eyes, and he fought it. He fought it so hard but he couldn't. Hengry laughed, taking pleasure in his son's pain. Soaking up all the pleasure from William's weak state just the way he had done with the colonials- women, children, sons, daughters trapped in the flaming church. Just the way he had done in killing Thomas Martin, a lad with far-fetched dreams of valor and strength on the battlefield, almost like himself.

The blows continued. Each time William attempted to rise from the ground, he was knocked back down to his former state. Eventually, he merely lied still, taking the hits with submission. Praying as darkness shadowed over him, William knew he was too late. All the people he had murdered stood above him, and his mouth gaped open in a silent plea for mercy. He felt himself falling, and heat intensified the deeper he got. Horrid screeches and screams of torture sounded from beneath him. Not like the cry of battle, but in some sort of distorted frequency. Instantly he knew no human ears have ever heard such a sound before. It terrified him, and he kicked and fought, reaching above him, but the people only looked down. "What's wrong with you," he swore, to those above him. "You would let me die? I'm a good man, off all things I don't deserve this! Damn you, colonials!" He would be forgotten, just as the souls in the church were.

Tavington went on swearing, when a soft voice cut him off. "They can't hear you, William." Eyes widened, his breath quickened.

"Who in God's name," he thought aloud.

"William, haven't you sworn enough?" A female's voice choked. A beautiful young woman appeared. Long, glossy dark curls sat over her shoulders. Her gown was all white, lighting up the darkness. The woman had a pained look on her face. The defined lines between her furrowed brows, her green eyes-Tavington recognized her immediately

"M-mother?" he stuttered, reaching out for her. The woman began to cry, falling to her knees and instantly William caught her, crushing her in a loving embrace.

"My dear boy," she wept, taking his chiseled face in between her radiant, petite hands. "Why have you killed? Why have you done such terrible things?" William kissed her cheek.

"Mama," he whispered affectionately. "I promised you a better life. I promised your name-our name," he acclaimed. The woman shook her head.

"William, I have prayed for you," she said brokenly. "I have prayed for you, every day," she went on. William bowed his head, eyes shut. She kissed his forehead. "Please," she said weakly. William opened his eyes, only to see darkness. Standing up, he began to panic.

"Mother," he said in a hoarse voice, blindly crawling on the floor. "Mother, please!" He began to weep in an ugly, ungentlemanly way. He felt himself retrogress into the little boy he had known 29 years ago. Small and helpless. Sitting in his own tears, William realized one thing in his own hell. His demon was no caricature of an illustrated being men talked of in pubs. His aggressor had no pitchfork, horns or tail. His demon's eyes were cold, grey, impassive. They reflected a broken, regretful, humiliated William. His demon was himself.


End file.
